Drops Of Jupiter
by imaginethesedorks
Summary: Jupiter always thought her teenage years would be about clothes, boys, popularity. She never could've guessed that she would end up in a 10,000 year old British boarding school, balancing romance, family, and academics, all while trying to keep her friends out of the clutches of dark magic. What's the worst that could happen?
1. Chapter 1

Jupiter is known at the planet of "greater fortune"; it is said to provide happiness, good luck, confidence, protection, knowledge, and most of all, justice. Jupiter is also known for providing generosity, wisdom, power, and optimism. Being the largest planet in our solar system, named after the Roman equivalent of Zeus, Jupiter is the king of planets.

You can imagine having a name like that is a lot for a girl to live up to. When my parents picked it out, they believed I had some kind of great destiny to live up to. Of course, I have realized over the years that I am painfully average. If anything, my abilities are less than those of my peers. But, in perfect fashion, my parents believe that I am as amazing as my name foretells. And they insist on telling me time and time again that I am special, I was always special, and I will always be special. Sometimes it really gets annoying because they're trying to fill my head with false confidence and unfulfilled dreams, all because of a name. But they insist, so really most of the time I just have to stay quiet about it and not let them know that I'm going to disappoint them.

In reality, I know that no person is _born_ special like that. The people in life who are special - great leaders, artists - those people achieve what they have over a lifetime. Nobody's born into greatness; unless you're Harry Potter or something. And he's just some kid from a bedtime story that my mom made up to make me believe in destiny and greatness, and "the little guy" being able to stand up to evil. But she's told it to me so many times that I was able to dismantle the tale for what it truly was.

I remember looking up at my mother, bright-eyed, the street lamp outside illuminating her hair in a bright halo as she stood over me, tucking the covers lovingly over my small form. She told me the tale of how a small baby was faced with one of the darkest wizards of all time, and not only defeated him, but came away unscathed. Well, except for a mark of dark magic that had been left on his forehead.

For the longest time when she told me that story, I liked to believe it was true. Mostly because when she told it, she spoke the words as if she really believed it herself. She talked about it like there really was a boy out there named Harry Potter and he really did have a lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead. But as my belief in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny faded, so did my belief in the tale of The Boy Who Lived. Thinking back on it, the whole thing was silly. Thinking that wizards, good or bad, could be defeated by babies, if they even existed in the first place. Any feat of magic in the world could be explained away by logic. That was just the reality of things.

All this was rolling through my head as I sat on the cushy window seat built into the bay window in my bedroom. The window overlooked the rest of the street, now quiet in the evening, the only activity being the cluster of early autumn leaves tumbling around in the breeze. I had lived in this house in a suburb in Washing, DC, for my entire life, and over my eight years, my bedroom had come to look like a three dimensional page in a scrapbook.

Everything was a collection of patterns, fixtures, too many small things for the eye to take in all at once. Every visible inch of the walls were plastered with movie and music posters, family pictures, and drawings of my own creation. Higher points near the ceiling were hung with collected cards and banners and scarves, and just about anything else I could get fastened to the walls without it falling down.

Every flat surface was covered in books and trinkets and souvenirs of every imaginable kind. Some I had bought or found for myself, but most had been presented to me by my parents on different occasions for different reasons. I liked having them around because they were entertaining things like snow globes or music boxes, and also for the sentiment.

Every piece of furniture in the room was covered in big and small stickers of every kind that I had acquired from God knows where, and hung with everything from feathers to bracelets. The bed was a mess of handmade quilts (all the way from my Nana in Vegas) and enough fuzzy throw blankets and pillows to last anyone a lifetime. So many that the pillows had spread over onto the window seat and they sometimes crowded my reading space when I really got into _Coraline_ or _The Great Gatsby_.

Everything in my bedroom was blanketed in a soft, comforting white light, curtsey of the many strings of Christmas lights that hung from the ceiling and everywhere else in the room, meaning that I never had to be in darkness.

The set of necklace beads that hung on my doorknob rattled, alerting me to the presence of someone else coming into the room. It was getting late in the evening, so it was likely one of my parents coming to drive me to bed. I was surprised, however, when my mother followed my father in through my bedroom door.

They both stayed quiet, not yet greeting me, and I followed, having been mellowed out in my time of thought. My mom, having changed out of her work clothes and into a cozy sweater and jeans, sat closely on the edge of my bed with her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her posture was stiff, her knees and elbows locked. My father stood only a few small steps from the doorway, still dressed in his work clothes (disheveled now, from his time lounging since he'd gotten home) with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his eyes downcast. Neither of them, really, had looked at me since entering the room and I wondered if something was wrong.

I cast my mind back over the past few days, searching my mind for anything wrong I had done, and nothing came to mind. The next conclusion I came to was that one of my relatives had died. Both my grandparents were in good health (last time I had heard) but they were past retirement age, so this could be the moment that my parents sat me down to tell me that they were dead. Statistically, any number of people in my life could be dead-

"Jupiter," my mother's voice called my name, the name I felt so detached from, drawing my attention to her. "Come here."

Her tone was hallow. She didn't quite sound as sad as if someone had died, but she sounded... uncertain. And my mother was always someone who was very secure. In my world my mom was nothing short of a "superhero". The woman worked at The Pentagon, for goodness sake; that's like a real life superhero. To me, she was one of those people who achieved their specialness over time and worked to keep it. But sitting here now she looked so small, so uncomfortable; quite honestly she was making me uncomfortable. Instead of taking a seat next to her on the bed, where she would likely be prone to touching me, which I wasn't fond of right now, I quietly pulled out my desk chair so that I was knee-to-knee with her and sat down.

"What's wrong?" I found my voice coming out, directed at my dad, because looking at this small version of my mom was becoming harder to do. My dad looked a bit better than she did - he didn't look upset more as he looked incredibly lost in his thoughts. His eyes were still locked on the exact same spot on the floor as they were when he came in. But generally, being a university professor, he was a thoughtful person. "Daddy?" I tried capturing his attention.

He woke; his gaze shifted from the floor but didn't come to me. Instead his eyes lingered on one of the narrow shelves that was nailed to wall to his right, one that held several of my fancier snow globes. One of his hands raised from his pockets and brushed his chin, and sure sign that he was still thinking.

"Jupiter," my mother's voice came again, quieter, though she had scooted off the bed more, closer to me. "We know that turning eight was a big deal for you,"

It really wasn't. The celebration consisted of a cake and presents from my close friends and family; the actual day itself wasn't that "special" like most people's birthdays are. And turning eight isn't as important as turning eighteen or sixteen or even ten. I wasn't sure what her statement had to do with anything, but agreeing with her about it would probably make it easier for her to get to the point of this conversation.

"What about it?" I asked.

My mother shifted, brushing her golden bangs back behind her ear before she made eye contact with me. Her eyes held a kind of sadness to them that scared me. My stomach churned and I suddenly wanted very much to leave the room and be alone again, without even knowing what she and dad had to tell me.

"Your father and I, we've watched you grow up. You've always - always been so mature, but over these past months we, I have watched you grow so much more." she broke a small smile and looked at me with a sad kind of adoration. Like how you look at a dying person or a puppy with three legs. "You're so intelligent, and so amazing, and so mature, and so kind-hearted-"

"What your mother is trying to say is..." my father appeared beside me, crouching to meet my eye level. He was holding one of the snow globes off the shelf in both his hands, with his eyes locked on me. "...there's something that we've kept from you. For a very long time. And we both believe that now you're at a good age to know about it."

This worried me a little. Was I adopted? I was probably adopted. The only reason parents sat their kid down and had a conversation like this with them was to tell them that they're adopted. I wasn't sure how I felt about this. I didn't think I was going to be one of those people who would go on a lifelong search for their birth parents, because really, my parents (or I guess my "adoptive parents") had been more than enough for me.

"What is it that you have to tell me?" I gave him the prompt he'd obviously been waiting for, even though I had it all figured out. He glanced down at the glass ball in his hands and then back at me. How on earth was my father being so calm about this anyway? And what did a snow globe have to do with anything?

"Do you remember when Mom gave this to you?" he inquired, holding it up for me to see.

I took a closer look at it and saw that it was one from my early childhood memories. The ornate base was done in a pattern of warm red and piped gold, holding the magnificent globe of wonder that still captured my attention to this day. Inside the glass was a scene of an ancient gray castle on a hill surrounded by the greenest, most lush grounds and overlooking a beautiful lake. A brown barn owl, flew in circles around the castle's skies, making the occasional squawk (that had gotten quieter over the years as the mechanics wore off). Something I had noticed about the scenery, too, was that it often changed with the seasons to match the weather outside. So though the grass was green on the tiny hill, some yellow and red leaves could be seen rolling in. It was a very neat trick, and it made the most break-taking snow during the winter months.

Mom had given it to me for my birthday when I turned four years old. On a day when it was filled with spectacular snow and the little lake inside had been frozen over. She showed it to me and explained that the castle wasn't for princes or princesses, but it was a place called Hogwarts where talented witches and wizards went to practice their magic. She would tell me stories of all the great people who went there, and how maybe someday I would get to go there too. As you can tell by now, my mother was a huge fan of fairytales and putting nonsense in my head to satisfy my taste for daydreams. And probably because she likes to daydream a lot herself.

Regardless, it was always one of my favorite snow globes because it was one of my first. Even if the story behind it was made up.

"Yes." I replied simply. I reached over and took the snow globe. I had forgotten how heavy it was.

"Do you remember the stories I used to tell you?" my mom was following suit with the questions, and once again I was wondering where this was going.

"Yeah, of course." Some part of me thought those stories were stupid, but they would always hold a special place in my heart because they reminded me of my mom. "But what does that have to do with anything?"

"Jupiter, baby, I don't know how to say this," she stuttered out, pulling at the ends of her sleeves.

"You're magical," my dad interrupted her, though he didn't seem to be cutting straight to the punch either.

I sighed, clear enough for both of them to hear. "Yes, I'm 'magical', I'm special, I'm supposed to do something great with my life. But what does that have to do with this? If you're trying to tell me I'm adopted, please just say it. You know it doesn't change-"

"No, no, no, sweetheart." My mother pleaded, placing both her hands on my knees. I had guessed wrong. I wasn't adopted? "Jupiter, you're not adopted. That's not what we're trying to tell you." Well why else would we be having a conversation like this? What else could they have kept from me for 'years'?

They both obviously saw the confusion on my face, because they exchanged glances and then my mom looked back at me.

"You are magical, Jupiter. You're a witch. That's what we're trying to tell you." She spoke it calmly, as if she were telling me something that was actually supposed to make sense. To me, she might as well be saying that there was a fluffy pink unicorn in our living room or that Santa Claus would be staying with us for his summer vacation.

I had probably just fallen asleep on the window seat again after reading some kind of fantasy book and was now having a strange dream because of it. I shook my head, clutching the snow globe near my chest, and pushing past my parents to get out of the desk chair.

"Jupiter, please say something," my father pleaded quietly. I had my back turned to both of them, trying to clear a new space on the shelf for the castle. Partly because it had been hiding off to the side and I had forgotten how much I liked it, and partly because if it was still in its new place tomorrow I would really know if this had been a dream or not.

"Magic isn't real." I grunted under my breath, most of my efforts going into reaching the high shelf. "There's no such thing as witches. And I am definitely not one." At this point it would've made much more sense if I had been adopted. It would've even made more sense if I was a long lost member of a famous family or something, but _magic_?

"I know it's a hard thing to stomach, but it's true." Mom sounded genuinely shaken, and the sound of her voice startled me. I shrunk back into myself, forgetting everything for a moment and just trying to think. This was just too strange to be real. This was some weird, weird dream. I barely realized it, but I was clutching the castle globe to my chest tightly, like it was some kind of anchor. Like it was going to give me the answers, the sanity, the security I needed.

"Jupiter, turn around. Just look at us, please. Jupiter."

I found myself drifting, turning away from the shelf and back in their direction. My dad had one of his arms wrapped around my mom's shoulders, the other placed on her forearm in comfort. Clearly he was more composed about this whole situation, but my mother was near tears and I had a very hard time looking at her because of that.

"Didn't you ever wonder why you were different from everyone else?" My dad's voice was gentle. No, I didn't. Because if I was different, it was because I lacked something, not because I had weird magical powers that no one else had. Or it was just because I was painfully shy and awkward, but that had nothing to do with magic. "Don't you ever remember doing magic?"

"No." I let out in a breath. Of course not. If I had done magic before, I surely would've known.

"What about when I taught you how you make paper cranes, and they all came off the table and flew around the room?" My father posed. "That was you. That was _your_ magic."

"I _imagined_ that." My voice was wavering, caught in my throat. "I thought - I thought I imagined that."

Could this be real? Was is possible that I was "magical"? I mean, there was no way.

"And what about the day Max died, when you were so upset that you made it rain in the house?" Mom chimed in, sounding a little more optimistic now.

Max had been my childhood cat, and when he died suddenly I had been devastated. I remember having a dream where I was sitting in one of our living room chairs, thinking about the loss of my beloved kitty, and suddenly I was very, very wet. My clothes and hair were soaked and when I looked up, there was a small, dark grey raincloud hovering over the chair I was sitting in, pouring cold water down over everything.

"I thought that was a dream." I explained. And I genuinely did. There was no evidence to tell me that it wasn't a strange, grief induced dream that had come to me after falling asleep in the chair.

My mother shook her head, almost cracking a smile.

"It was pretty far from a dream, sweetie." She said. "You almost flooded the family room and we had to replace all the rugs and six of the floorboards."

I didn't remember any of that. I surely would've noticed them bringing in new mats and ripping up the floor.

"But..."

"Your mother wanted to tell you about this all then, but I knew we wouldn't really be able to explain it all to you. It's just... so complicated. So we replaced everything while you were at school and let you think the rain was a dream. You were just too young to understand. But we both know now that you're mature enough to face this." My father explained, smiling at me fondly.

My stomach filled with butterflies. It was as though a pair of large hands had placed themselves around my stomach bag and started squeezing like there was no tomorrow. My ears were ringing, and I felt a little bit dizzy. This was possible. Not only was it possible, it was actually true. I was magical, I had performed magic before. Both my parents knew, and they had been hiding it from me for most of my life - maybe longer. I was a witch.

I found my legs very weak, and I felt the need the need to grip onto something, the need for security. The only thing near my hands was the lonely glass globe that I was still holding in all the commotion, and I gripped in my shaking hands, not quite having the ability to move.

"Jupiter, honey, tell us what you're thinking," my mother's voice gently cooed as my father's comforting grip released her.

I'm going to throw up. That's what I'm thinking.

"How do you feel about all this?" she stepped closer to me, craning her neck to get a better look at my face, which had somehow become fixed on the ground.

How did I feel about this? I mean, I could do magic. But how far could this go? Sure, I could make it rain indoors, but could I walk through walls? Could I turn invisible? Could I read minds? Could I fly? And what was I even going to use the magic for? Was I going to be the next vigilante like Batman or Spiderman?

On top of that, not knowing for all these years... should I be mad at my parents? Or were they just trying to protect me? Did they just want me to fit in at school? Scratch that, nobody names their kid after a planet and wants them to fit in. The nickname "Stupider Jupiter" came to mind.

The more my thoughts coursed through me, the tighter I clutched the snow globe, and the more my hands shook. The thing really was heavier than I remembered. Before I really knew what was happening, the large ball of glass had slipped clean out of my nervous, sweaty hands and crashed onto the cold wood of my bedroom floor. It smashed almost gracefully into dozens of tiny shards and the metal base bounced at my feet before resting in silence with everything else. I gasped, surprised, and slightly sad, but the emotions were dulled with everything else running through my system at the moment.

"Oh Jupiter," my mother shook her head, staring down at the mess of glass and... glitter? I expected that with a freshly broken snow globe lying on the floor, my socks should be soaked, but all that seemed to be present at my feet was heaps of fine gold glitter.

"I'll go get the broom and dust-pan," my father noted, going to leave the room.

"No need." my mother shook her head. Her voice had definitely changed in the past few minutes. When I looked closer to her face, she was giving my father a kind of pleased smirk. She reached behind her, into the waistband of her jeans, almost in the place where people on TV kept their guns when they lacked a holster. Her hand emerged from behind her back holding... a stick. "We can have this mess cleaned up in a blink."

She was smiling at me like she knew something. I focused my eyes back on the stick, wondering what she was up to. Not that anything else that happened that night could possibly surprise me. It didn't really look like something anyone could just pick off a tree branch; it was very obviously carved and decorated in a specific way.

"Is now really the time, Gem?" my father whined at her, crossing both his arms over his chest. "I think we've sprung enough of this on her for now."

"Well now that she knows, we don't have to keep anymore secrets." my mother giggled, crouching down to where the mess was still scattered on the floor. "Now we don't have to be bothered with doing everything the Muggle way,"

Muggle? What did that mean?

My mom held the stick in her right hand above the pile of glass and glitter, and started waving it like it was supposed to do something. She was whispering words under her breath that I couldn't make out - words that didn't even sound like English. For a fraction of a second I thought she was crazy, until I saw it. The smallest little ray of light at the end of the stick. It was almost as if it was alive. Her hand motioned faster, and then the pieces on the floor started to twitch - like they were taking on life from that light. Right before my eyes, in a matter of seconds, the pieces twitched and shook until they sprung back together, and the snow globe was sitting on my bedroom floor as good as new. It was like magic.

Wait, so my mother was magic too? I wasn't just some freak, one-in-a-million witch like when they sent Superman to earth? What about my father, could he do magic? Did I have more magical relatives that I didn't even know about?

Mom, still kneeling on the floor, picking up the globe in her free hand and offered it to me.

"How was that for your first magic trick?" she posed.

I took it back with two hands, and the owl let out a particularly loud shriek. Now I felt no more dizziness and uncertainty; I felt nothing but light happiness running through me.

"Wow," was all I managed to get out in my awed shock.

"With the proper training, you'll be able to do that. Someday." My mother explained, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear.

"Really?" I looked up at her. She had this kind of proud glow about her now.

"I think it's time for Jupiter to go to bed." My father chided as he impatiently adjusted his watch. It seemed that he was the uneasy one now. But out of both my parents, he was always the one who was far more paranoid about me getting hurt. "This has been so much excitement, and now you need to rest."

In that moment I probably had far more questions than I did answers, and I could've stayed up all night discussing all of what had just happened. But it was best not to argue with my dad when it came to bed time.

He stepped between me and mother, taking the snow globe and putting it back on the shelf. She let him usher me over to my bed and lift the covers before tucking me safely into them.

"Goodnight Jupiter," my mother leaned over me and kissed my cheek. Before she turned to leave the room.

"No bedtime story?" I questioned and she stopped, turning back around and leaning in the doorway.

"You've got all the magic now, baby girl. This is when you start making stories of your own."

Her words sounded like a line straight out of a movie, but I took them to heart.

"I love you." I told her gently.

"I love you, too." she sang back as her footsteps echoed down the hall.

I turned to my father, who was kneeling by the edge of my bed to be eye-level with me.

"Jupiter, just know, it's not magic that makes you special. Because I know firsthand that magic isn't what really makes a heart like yours." My father leaned in and kissed my forehead.

Another line that could've been written into a mystical adventure movie, but I took it. We exchanged our goodnights before he left the room, closing the door behind him. My eye cast over to the castle globe, where it was perched on the spot I had cleared for it. It seemed to glow in the dim shine of the Christmas lights, and I noticed the owl every time he lapped around, and that more leaves were falling and blowing out over the hills.

Tonight had been something out of fantasy - something that only happened in imaginary worlds to imaginary people. But hopefully, _hopefully_ I would wake up tomorrow and I would still be a witch. And this wouldn't be some kind of crazy dream. Hopefully, this was just the first chapter in my magical adventure story.


	2. Chapter 2

I found myself in a library. If you would call it that. It was more like an endless room filled with books, but more of them seemed to be in towering stacks on the floor rather than organized on shelves. Standing on ground level, there was nothing but a sea of paper stacks as far as I could see. I was interested - being raised by a professor, and generally not bothering with socializing at school, books were a hobby of mine. This could easily be a gold mine of adventure and entertainment. I began to wade my way through the piles, only finding small sections of bare floor underneath my sock feet. I stumbled around, finding myself knocking knees with some of the heavier books. I was surprised I didn't send anything falling over.

A surprising noise broke the silence. I hadn't even realised how silent the room was until I heard the noise. A jingle - like small bells or spare change in someone's pocket. A high pitched jingle followed by a heavy thud. Then another jingle, then another thud. Then another. Jingle; thud. Jingle; thud. It was rhythmic and smooth. Like footsteps. Footsteps that grew more potent as they grew closer. Someone else was in the library. I was curious to find out who else had taken an interest in all these books. I began stumbling through the mess again, trying to make my way toward the sound of the footsteps.

I tripped, caught somewhere between my own feet and the massive piles of paper, and tumbled over. Several hard covers were sticking into my fallen form at odd angles, and though the pain was dull, it was still annoying. The footsteps were loud enough that they should've been on top of me by now, and I craned my neck up to look and saw a pair of legs. Legs dawned with royal blue stockings. As the legs got closer, I noticed the books... clearing a path. The books were floating up and flying around to place themselves on other stacks, purposefully clearing a path for whoever was coming. When they got close enough to me, the clear floor space allowed me to see the person's shoes. A pair of heavy, black boots covered in many, many straps with little bits of gold fastened on each one. Easily the culprit of the footsteps I'd heard.

I was still lying on the pile of books, and the person bent at the waist, offering a hand to me. A pretty, feminine hand sporting two different flowery rings and sparkly blue nail polish.

"You look like you could use a hand," she noted, waving her extended hand in front of me for emphasis. I nodded, as much as I could from my position, and took her hand in both of mine, pulling myself up with some help. Her skin had a clammy kind of chill to it, but that didn't bother me.

"Thank you," I mumbled in reply, looking down to adjust my night shorts before finally looking at her face.

The first thing that really struck me about her was her hair. It was a stunning bright blue, a few shades lighter than her tights, and cascaded to her collar bones with a care-free, not curly, not quite straight quality. It was beautiful like ocean waves and part of me wanted nothing more than to touch it. But I knew that would be creepy. It was the kind of hair I always dreamed of having, instead of my boring dull brown.

She had on thick rimmed glasses, and had decorated her whole body with flowers and bright colours and small details of trinkets. I even noticed the small, shining stud of a piercing in her nose. She reminded me of the decor in my bedroom, even if I myself spent most of my days dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. Her look could have easily been off-putting to some people, but to me, she looked amazing.

Past all that, I could see that she was older than me - I should've been able to tell just by the height difference - but her features had the maturity that could've marked her to be in her late teens or early twenties. It was hard to pinpoint, but I wasn't that great at estimating things like distance or age.

I wanted to ask her who she was. I wanted to place a name to this fabulously over-dressed woman, but in a situation like this that felt... rude. So I went with a different question.

"What are you doing here?" I inquired gently, trying to sound friendly.

"An interesting question." She remarked, giving me a smirk. The same kind of all-knowing smirk that my mother gave me before, and likes to give often. "A library..." she trailed off, starting away from me again, the noise of her boots seeming quieter. The books continued to float and move around her, stacking themselves up into neater piles. Almost as if she was the one willing them to do so. I followed behind her, eager to hear what else she had to say, walking on the now cleared space of floor. "Books, books," she mumbled gently, snatching one of the floating titles out of the air. "There is no better weapon in the world than books."

So she was here... looking for something. A powerful piece of knowledge. I guess that's what libraries really are for (looking things up), but I had hoped that most of these were fictional, not factual. Those kind of books usually bored me with how they were written, or what they were written about.

She stopped walking, causing me to smack into her back, then take a few hasty steps away to give us both our personal space. "I think the better question is: what are _you_ doing here, little one?"

 _Little one_ ; no one had called me anything like that since I was, well, little. I didn't mind it, though. I always found comfort in pet names from my parents, or nicknames from my friends. And this lady, whoever she was, gave me that same kind of comfort as well.

"I don't know." I answered honestly. I thought there really wasn't a greater purpose of me being here, other than to read. She shook her head, very slightly, and then handed me the large brown book she was holding. _A Powerful Mind_ was the title, embossed in gold letters, with no author listing.

"Think about it," she instructed, and then the book took on movement of its own, releasing from my hands and flying off to be stacked. When I looked up she was walking away again.

"I guess I'm here to read." I hollered out at her as I picked up my pace to catch up.

"Guessing is for people who lack understanding of the facts." She said very... powerfully. Was she some kind of spirit guide person that was supposed to direct me to the answers without directly telling me? Cause that could very easily get annoying.

"So what?" I replied, still following her as she went much deeper into the higher stacks. There was clear paths here; like she had already been down here and cleaned things up.

"What is your understanding of the facts?" She peered over her shoulder at me, bending down to pick up a few books that had been forgotten.

"I'm here. You're here. In a library." I spoke it as it went through my mind. "Well, not exactly. This doesn't really look like a library. Just a ton of books."

"Good." She reached up and put the books on top of the stacks, that looked more like walls on the winding path. "What else?"

"I don't know." I breathed, slightly annoyed.

"You don't?" She quirked an eyebrow at me before continuing on her footpath. I huffed, following again. "What do you think all these books are for?"

"Reading." That was an obvious answer.

"And what do you think you would get out of reading all these books?" She posed.

This time I decided to skip the 'I don't know', and go straight to thinking aloud. "Stories?" I said unsurely, and she didn't acknowledge me. "Thoughts? Theories? Instructions?"

"Close," she turned back to me again, cutting off my rambling. "Answers. Books provide answers." She picked up one more book in each hand from off the floor, and turned to face me. "Anytime you have a question, a book will always hold the answer."

"So what? When in doubt... go to the library?" I questioned, and she smiled at me.

"Basically." She nodded. "But it's not just about reading - it's about thinking. All the great minds in the world, the Gandhis, the Ravenclaws, the DaVincis of the world, they all have one thing in common."

I only knew who half of those people were, but I guessed that wasn't the point.

"They read?" I almost knew where she was going with this by now.

"Yes, and they think. All the questions they ever had were answered by thinking. Great minds know that answers will never be plainly laid out for them. But the answers can be retrieved by reading, and thinking." She explained, sounding very cheerful about these facts.

That was nice and all, but I had no clue what it had to do with me. She obviously saw my thoughts on my face, so she handed me one of the books she was holding, and I looked down to see a very old version of Lewis Carroll's novel _Alice's Adventures In Wonderland_. A favourite book of mine - though I'd only ready modern versions without the traditional illustrations. This one looked like the real deal.

I raised an eyebrow at her, confused.

"You've read this one. How can you relate?" she inquired gently.

"A girl lost in a world where she doesn't belong." I mumbled, more to myself, tracing my fingers over the cover.

"Exactly." She affirmed, brushing my hair over my shoulder. I didn't mind her touching me as much as I thought I might. "And that feeling's only going to grow once you get into all the bipity-bopity-boo stuff."

"You mean magic?" I had almost forgotten about what happened last night. The discussion - the realization that I'm a witch. It was still a strange thought, even when I had just been thinking about a rabbit telling time and a disappearing cat.

"Bingo." She confirmed. "Even now you have so many questions. But the answers are all in here." She gestured around to all the books.

I nodded, and she placed the other book - one with a much smaller cover, but still thick - on top of _Alice_. The title read _The Tales Of Beedle The Bard_ in dark blue lettering, in contrast to the pale blue cover. She reached over and flipped the book open, seemingly to a very specific page. The page had a bold, black title; _The Tale Of The Three Brothers_ , with a small illustration of a gravestone below it. The gravestone held no name, no words; nothing but a strange symbol etched on it. A triangle with a circle inside it, and a straight line struck through the whole thing.

I looked back up at her, about to speak again, when my eyes caught on her necklace. It was a round black pendant with a shiny, silvery version of the same symbol inside. It was pretty, but I didn't understand what it meant.

"Your necklace," I stuttered out, but she cut me off.

"But remember, the most important thing isn't the answer." She brushed her fingers over the spines of the books closest to her, gazing over at them fondly. "It's really more about the question you're asking." She told me, then gently touched my nose. She smiled down at me once more before she turned and begun walking in the other direction. She turned a corner and then she was gone, as soon as she had come, the jingle of her boots fading along with her.

That sound still stuck with me, even when I woke from that very strange dream.


End file.
